


Stress Relief

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Beating, Blood, Bondage, Breaking Furniture, Breathplay, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, M/M, Masochism, Older Man/Younger Man, Organized Crime, Pistol-Whipping, Punching, Punishment, Rough Sex, Verbal Humiliation, kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:05:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows as well as I do that threats like that only make me worse. It's been weeks since Joe last worked me over, and I reckon he's as hungry for it as I am. He looks at me, hard and white-hot, like he's just daring to me push my luck, and I can't resist that any more than he can resist my baiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stress Relief

The restaurant is fancy enough that I start to feel uncomfortable as soon as we step through the door. I shouldn't. I mean, in this nice suit the boss bought me, with this freshly-combed hair and these freshly-shined shoes, I look like I should feel right at home. But I don't feel at home, I feel like I should be waiting outside in the car, and somehow that discomfort turns into a big stupid urge to needle him and Joe even more. Maybe it's the novelty of being someplace where neither of them can backhand me in plain sight, or maybe it's just the excitement of going somewhere so expensive, but either way that urge is bubbling up inside me like the fizz in a can of soda, and by the time we're all seated I'm ready to pop.

"This is a nice place, really nice," I say, picking up a bread roll from the little basket and tearing off a chunk. "You don't normally take me anywhere like this, is it my birthday and nobody told me?"

"Yeah," Joe says, keeping his voice low, "and if you don't behave yourself, I'll take you outside and give you a birthday present you won't forget."

He knows as well as I do that threats like that only make me worse. It's been weeks since Joe last worked me over, and I reckon he's as hungry for it as I am. He looks at me, hard and white-hot, like he's just daring to me push my luck, and I can't resist that any more than he can resist my baiting. I've seen him go to town on plenty of guys, but no-one else seems to rile him up as much as I do. And I've been given what for by more tough guys than I can count, but the only beatdowns I like better than Joe's are the boss's.

"No need to get all sore, Joe." I shrug, giving him exactly the right flippant tone to get him boiling over. "I'm just saying, it might make me soft, but I could get used to this kind of pampering. You know, like you have."

"Boys–" the boss starts to say, but before he can tell us both to skip it, the waiter comes back with our food. And now the boss is all smiles, perfectly civilised and every bit the legitimate gentleman. It's unnerving how smoothly he can switch modes. I never get tired of watching it. Half the time I'm watching just to see the moment when a bit of that cruelty slips through. A stare that's a little bit too hard, a hand on the arm that's just a little bit too tight, a politely-worded suggestion that sounds ever so slightly like a command. For me, those moments are like scraps falling from a table. Normally I could watch him slipping that mask off and on all night, but sometimes something gets into me, sometimes I get the urge to push and push until it cracks altogether.

Tonight's one of those nights, but I know better than to push too far too soon. So I sit and eat quietly, and every so often when the boss or Joe asks me a question, I answer nice and polite like a good boy. I keep my head down, my voice low, and my tone respectful all the way through three courses of play-acting. And the end result of all that admirable self-restraint is that by the time we've finished the meal, I've got about an hour's worth of backchat pent-up inside me, just waiting to boil over. The two of them are talking about something, I don't know what, I haven't been listening closely enough to keep track. Some deal or other that's way above my level, probably. Without pausing, without even looking at me, the boss takes out a cigarette and just waits for me to lean across and light it like I always do, like a little clockwork monkey dancing right on cue. So I just sit there and let him wait, and after a couple of seconds I get the reaction I'm after, only it's from the wrong person.

"What are you waiting for?" Joe says, with an impressively even tone that doesn't match his eyes one bit. "It's not going to light itself."

"It'll have to." I hold his gaze for a moment, nice and steady, and then I turn back to the boss. "Must have forgotten my matches, how careless of me."

Joe glares at me, hot enough I'm surprised the tablecloth doesn't catch fire. "I'm gonna–"

"You," the boss interrupts, fixing me with one of those too-sharp looks, the kind that makes my skin tingle. "Go and wait outside."

The thrill of that look keeps me warm all the way out of the restaurant and around the corner to the car. I lean against the side of it, watching the door of the place, thinking about what I'm going to say when the boss and Joe come out here. Eventually I'll apologise for what I did, but not for a while, not until I've had it beaten out of me. No, when the boss comes out of that door, I'll keep up the backchat, at least until he's smacked me around a bit. There's an alley down the street from here, and I reckon if I run my mouth enough I could needle the boss into just dragging me down there and working me over without even bothering to take me somewhere private. But maybe I should ease off a bit, bite my tongue until Joe's driven us back to the townhouse, and then once we're behind closed doors the boss can really let me have it. It's tempting, but I'm so worked up already that I'm not sure I've got the patience.

As it turns out I haven't even got the patience to wait until the boss comes out here, because when I see Joe walking through the doors on his own, I can't resist calling out to him. "What's the matter, did he send you outside for bad behaviour too?"

"You need to learn some respect," Joe says, advancing on me with his hands in his pockets and his eyes full of that fire I've been chasing all night.

"Oh yeah?" I scoff. "You going to teach me a lesson, are you?"

He doesn't answer, just glares at me. I open my mouth to start my next line, but before I know what's hit me he's got a handful of my jacket in his fist, the barrel of his gun swings down toward my face,  and everything goes dark.

 

* * *

 

When I wake up my head is throbbing like he's still hammering on it, dull and slow, in time with my heartbeat. I must have really outdone myself tonight. I've had some rough rides before, spent plenty of trips trussed up or knocked out on the backseat, but he's never shoved me in the boot before. It makes me laugh, because a year ago I'd have been thinking this is it, I've gone too far, this journey is going to be one-way. But then again, a year ago I wouldn't have dared pull the stuff I pulled tonight, and a year ago I wouldn't have been taken out to that fancy restaurant in the first place, so I guess things have changed for all three of us since then.

The car stops, and I hear the door opening and closing, then silence. He makes me wait a minute or so, and that's more than enough of a delay to get me wound up. When the lid opens and Joe grabs hold of my arm, I start up the backchat right away. "What's the matter, didn't you feel like company on the way down? Or were you and the old man having another one of those grownup conversations I'm not allowed to hear?"

"This boss isn't here, kid." Joe smiles as he drags me out of the boot and onto the ground. "Just you and me tonight."

"Hah!" I snort, pushing myself up to my feet and squaring off with him. "Think you can handle me on your own?" And I give him a little push in the chest, right on that fancy tie.

I'm expecting a slap, but what I get is a punch hard enough to send me a couple of steps back, and before I can steady myself Joe grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me away from the car. I flail my arms out, elbowing him as hard as I can, but it doesn't do me much good. He just shrugs off each blow and keeps on hauling me across the drive, up to the front door of the house, and he holds me there by the throat as he unlocks the door. I use the wait to get a good look at the place, and what I see gets me even more hot and bothered than the trip in the boot. Trees everywhere, a long drive that I can't see the end of, and no houses either side of the place. No neighbours, no-one to hear what goes on inside. Perfect.

"Get in there," he says, as he shoves me through the door and puts the lights on.

"Nice place." I smirk at him. "This your holiday home or something?"

Joe's face darkens, so I guess the answer to that is something I don't want to get into. This place looks like it was pretty flashy once, but now it's run-down and dusty, practically falling apart. No, I'm not touching that subject with a bargepole. So instead I stroll through to the living room like I own the place, drape my jacket over one of the chairs, and sit down on the sofa. "Well anyway, you should get a cleaner in here," I say, putting my feet up on the coffee table, nice and casual as Joe advances on me. "It's a bit clapped-out but I reckon it'd scrub up well. You know, like y–"

He cuts me off with a slap, grabs me by the hair and throws me across the room good and hard, so that I slam into a cabinet that rattles like it's on the verge of toppling over. I lunge at Joe before he's got a chance to smack me again, and I must be on a lucky streak tonight, because I get a good solid hit in on his jaw and then another one straight after, right on the cheek with the scar.

"You're getting slow," I taunt him, laughing, and when he punches me hard enough to knock me off my feet, I keep that smirk plastered on my face as I hit the floor. I'm still grinning up at him when he kicks me square in the stomach, and suddenly breathing seems a lot more interesting than mouthing off. So he gets a break for a few seconds, while I double up on my side and try to make my lungs work again, but he doesn't return the favour. He kicks me again, in the side this time, and while I'm reeling from that he crouches down and grabs hold of my throat, squeezing it nice and firm, tight enough to get me squirming underneath him.

"Always have to make things worse for yourself, don't you?" Joe says, glowering at me as his grip tightens. "You need to learn when to stop running that mouth."

"That–" I start to say, but his fingers tighten again, and now I have to struggle to get the words out. "That wouldn't be much fun, would it?"

He lets go of my throat and backhands me hard enough to make my head spin, but I'm not too dazed to roll out of the way afterwards and scrabble to my feet. My mouth stings when I smirk at him, and I can feel blood trickling down from the corner of my lip, so I dart my tongue out to lick at it, keeping my eyes on his. He looks like he wants to tear me apart with his bare hands, and that look just makes me worse. So this time when he throws a punch my way, I don't bother trying to dodge it, but I swing my own fist right up into that scowl, and now my knuckles are stinging as bad as my lips, but Joe's got a matching smear of blood on his own mouth.

"You little punk," he hisses, and when he lunges at me he looks like he really is planning to wring my neck. I get out of the way in time, but only just, and even then I can't resist making it worse.

"It's all that high living, Joe, it's made you soft," I laugh, ducking past him and making a dash for the next room. I get all the way through the door of it, too, before he catches me. Then those rough hands grab hold of my shoulders, and the next thing I know I'm hitting the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of me. The bookshelf next to me is empty, and that's a shame, because flinging a few hardbacks at Joe would be perfect right now. But I make do with what I've got, and settle for swinging my fists his way again when he comes up behind me, only this time I'm not so lucky as before.

"I'd say I'm going to beat some sense into you," he says, blocking my punches and giving me a good hard slug of his own, right in the kidney. I can't help but cry out this time, and now he's the one laughing. "But lessons never stick for long with you, do they?"

"Suppose not," I say, pushing up against him as he pins me to the wall. "But there's no harm in trying."

He brings one hand up to my throat, and grabs hold of my hair with the other, holding me in position. I can feel how hard he is just from smacking me around, and I grind up against his leg as he holds me there, just to let him know the feeling's mutual. I even bring my hands up to rest on his shoulders, hanging onto him like I'm feeling more accommodating now, like I'm thinking about giving up. And then I give him an almighty shove backwards and bring my knee up, aiming for his stomach. But he's way too fast for me. Joe steps back quick enough that the blow goes nowhere, and while I'm trying to get my balance again, he grabs my arms and flings me across the room, sending me crashing into the desk. I rebound off that and fall against the chair hard enough that the rickety old thing breaks underneath me like a bundle of twigs.

"Oh, now, look at the mess you've made…" I stay where I fell, sprawling on the floor and smirking up at him. The way he looks at me, the way my body aches and throbs everywhere he's touched it, the taste of blood on my lips, everything's pushing me closer and closer to snapping like that broken-up chair. Maybe I faked giving up a minute ago, but he won't have to push me much further before it's the real deal.

"That's nothing compared to the mess I'm going to make of you," Joe says, and he gives me a kick to the ribs just to underline his point. "I can do whatever I like to you tonight, he said, as long as I bring you back in one piece."

 _One bruised and bloodied piece_ , I want to say, but I don't get the chance because his foot swings up and connects with my stomach hard enough that I can't breathe, let alone speak. He doesn't waste that opportunity, doesn't waste any time at all. Before I know what's happening, he's rolling me over onto my front and wrenching my arms behind my back, wrapping something smooth and warm around my wrists. I look over my shoulder, trying to figure out what he's tying me up with, and I can just make out the gleam of leather. He tightens the belt around my wrists, and finally I can breathe enough to start baiting him again.

"What's the matter," I sneer up at him over my shoulder, tugging against the belt. "You worried I'm going to land another one of those lucky hits on you?"

"Maybe." He steps back, and I push myself onto my side the minute he steps off me. I'm just about to give him another line, but he shuts me up with a kick in the mouth, and as I lie there trying to push through the pain flaring out through my face, he just smiles down at me and wipes his shoe on my shirt, smearing blood across the front of it. "Or maybe I'm getting impatient, and I know the quickest way to get you begging for it is to tie you up."

And now I haven't got any more lines to throw at him. All I can think about is the way everything throbs and stings, the way every time my heart beats it feels like my pulse is pushing a fresh wave of pain right through me, the way that ache inside me is burning hotter than ever. I just stare up at him, licking the blood from my mouth, trying to the think of a single thing I can say that isn't the plea he's after.

"Look at you," Joe says, bringing the toe of his shoe down to my groin, pressing against me just firmly enough to make a groan well up in my throat. "Hard as a rock, just from a beating. The boss'd call that shameless."

"He would, wouldn't he?" I say, pushing forward against Joe's foot. "And what would you call it?"

"I'd call it asking for more." He hauls me up by the hair again, and I make a show of struggling against his grip, but when he drags me to my knees I stay where he puts me. I want it worse than ever now, and maybe I'm not going to beg yet, but I'm not far off. Another one of those wretched little groans spills out of my lips as he shoves my face down against his crotch, as he rubs my mouth against the bulge of his cock, letting me feel exactly how hard he is.

"Careful," I murmur, half muffled against his trousers, "you're getting blood all over that nice suit…"

"Wouldn't be the first time." He laughs that rough, nasty laugh and shoves my head down harder, grinding against my face until my lips are stinging and throbbing like they're freshly-slapped. Without meaning to I start tugging against the belt around my wrists, wanting to bring my hands around and touch myself, but there's no chance of that. Joe just laughs when he spots me struggling. He knows exactly what I want, and he's not going to let me have it any time soon.

"I knew you'd end up like this," he says, pulling my head back and slapping me again. "The minute I saw you dressed up nice and neat, I knew it wouldn't last long." Joe yanks my tie off and throws it aside, and he doesn't even bother unfastening my shirt, he just grabs a handful in each fist and rips it wide open. "And now look at you. All the expensive suits in the world couldn't cover up what you are."

"Oh yeah?" I glance down at the torn shirt, the blood smeared across it, the faded old bruises and livid fresh marks on my chest and stomach, and then I look back up at him with a smirk. "And what's that?"

Joe grabs my throat and pulls me up to my feet, pushes me up against the wall and presses against me, hard and hot and inescapable. "A cheap little punk who needs this like he needs air."

"Then why don't you–" I start to say, but he puts his forearm across my throat and chokes the words off, keeping the pressure up until I'm coughing and squirming against him. When I push forward, forcing my throat harder against his arm, he just laughs.

"Oh, I'll give it to you, alright." Joe gives me one last hard shove of that forearm, and then he swaps that hold for a hand in my hair, and uses it to sling me across the desk. He's right behind me, pinning me down, grinding up against me roughly enough that I'm biting back moans before he's even unfastened my trousers. He makes me wait, keeping me pressed into position while he takes his jacket off and fishes the lube out of his pocket, laughing at me as I grind my ass back against him. When he finally yanks my trousers down, one of those moans spills right out of my lips, and when he unfastens his own and presses his cock against me, I haven’t got any more self-control left to give.

"Fuck me, please," I groan, twisting around as much as I can, trying to meet his eyes. "Come on, Joe, give it to me…"

"Look at you. One touch and you're begging for it," he taunts me, rubbing his shaft between the cheeks of my ass, laughing when the heat of it makes me moan. He pulls back to lube up, but he only gives me the bare minimum, just a few swipes of his fingers and then he's pushing into me, spreading my ass apart and forcing his way in hard enough to make every inch burn. I struggle against him, pushing back so that I just end up taking it faster, and as soon as he's all the way in he starts pounding me, merciless right from the start. He knows exactly how to fuck me, exactly what to do to get me yelping and moaning and begging for more. I never stand a chance with Joe. He knows me too well, and now I'm just a toy for him to use. I cry out when he yanks on my hair, I groan when he thrusts into me deep and hard, I yelp when he wrenches me upright only to slam me back down over the desk, and throughout it all I'm begging for his cock, telling him how good it feels, how much I need to be fucked like this, rough and nasty and brutal.

"Up on the table," he orders, pulling out just long enough to haul me up into position. On my side like this, I can see his face as he slides his cock back into me, I can see the pleasure in his eyes when he rams it in hard enough to make me yelp, the way his lips curl into a smirk every time I beg for more. When he closes one hand around my cock I feel like I'm right up at the edge already, like he's been holding me there for hours. A few firm strokes and I'm groaning desperately, begging him to keep going. A few more and I'm staring up at him, pleading clumsily enough that I might as well be drunk. Then he brings his other hand up to my throat and squeezes hard, and that's too much, I'm done for. I cry out, loud and ragged like he's wringing the life out of me, writhing against him, trying to get more of his hand and more of his cock, more of anything he'll give me, and when I finally sag back down against the table my throat feels as raw as if he's been fucking it all night.

"Filthy little bitch," he chuckles, wiping his hand clean on my sleeve. I just nod and grin, trying to catch my breath as he keeps on slamming into me. Even now I can't stop watching him, the way the dim light falls across his face, across that scar, making each one of those nasty smiles look just a bit more sinister. And I keep on begging for it, desperate and greedy even now, until Joe finally pulls out and lets me have it, spraying my ass and thighs until they're dripping with come. "Remember this, next time you feel like disrespecting the boss," he says, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back hard. "Remember I can bring you down here any time he likes, and next time I might not go so easy on you."

"Alright," I nod, trying to keep my voice above a whimper. "Alright, Joe, sure."

Even after he's taken the belt off my wrists, it takes me a minute to push myself off the desk and stretch my arms, like I've been tied up so long I've forgotten how to move. I'm too slow for Joe's tastes, it looks like, and he slaps me on the ass to hurry me along. "Get dressed and get in the car," he says, giving me a shove on the back to go with that slap. "And no backchat."

I do as I'm told, quick and quiet. He's right, there won't be any backchat. At least not until we get back to the boss.

 

* * *

 

Standing on the balcony like this, watching the boss looking out over the city, it's hard not to wonder what he's thinking about. What goes through a guy's mind when everything he can see below him is either his, or on the list to become his? I've no idea. Trying to figure out what the boss is thinking, it's like a dog trying to fathom his owner's innermost thoughts. I've got no chance, and I probably wouldn't understand even if he told me. But I understand when he turns toward me and takes out a cigarette, and when I lean forward and light it for him, I understand the slight smile he gives me in return.

"You did a good job last week," he says, turning around and leaning back against the balcony.

"I did?" I should probably just say thank you, but given that I haven't gone out on an assignment for a fortnight now, I can't help asking. "What job?"

"Joe's been wound up like a spring for weeks now. Most times, he cools down when I tell him to, but sometimes he needs to blow off steam." The boss brings his hand up to my face and pats my cheek lightly, right on the worst of the bruises Joe put there. When I wince at the touch, he smiles, and when I lean against his hand so that it hurts a little more, he just laughs. "And you always push his buttons just right, without even trying. You couldn't have done a better job of it if you were working to instructions."

Which just goes to prove my point, I guess. I'll never know what he's thinking. He just throws the stick, and I run off to fetch it without even knowing what I'm doing. Still, even if I was dancing to a tune I couldn't hear, it was a fun enough that dance I wouldn't mind doing it again. And I wouldn't mind pushing my luck again, either. "So," I say, grinning, "when do I get to help you with _your_ stress, boss?"

"Gunning for Joe's position already, are you?" He laughs, and walks back through to the apartment, leaving me standing there open-mouthed. When I snap out of it, he's already in the lounge, and I have to jog a little to catch up with him.

"No, sir," I say, shaking my head as vehemently as I can manage with these bruised shoulders. "No-one could take Joe's place, I know that."

"Smart kid," the boss says, with one of those smiles that always gives me the shivers. So maybe I'm never going to be the boss's stress relief, maybe I'm always going to be a bit of light entertainment, but that's alright. As long as he keeps me around, as long as I get to entertain both of them, that's more than enough job satisfaction for me.


End file.
